Disclaimer: I don't own anything
Summary: Belle attempts to teach Mr. Gold how to use chopsticks. Teen!Belle
Lifted the idea of Teen!Belle from rufeepeach's Time Frames. As well as the reference to her Rabbits on the Run (can you spot it?).
In their past life, he had been the one doing the teaching. He'd vanished them to Cathay with the snap of a finger and the twirl of a wrist. He'd mocked her half the afternoon over the mess she'd made with only two sticks and a bowl of cold, spicy noodles. The mess had necessitated his buying her something more suitable—as in less sticky—to wear for the remainder of their trip. After he'd finished the reason for the journey, a dark deal with a royal concubine over a suitable poison for the son of the empress (Belle had remained with the servants. What she didn't know wouldn't kill her, only the crown princeling), they'd taken tea, steeped in all its eastern frippery, before he'd magic-ed them back to the Dark Castle.
Not empty handed, of course. No, never empty-handed where Belle was concerned. They'd returned with cloth from silk worms in vibrant reds and blues, and growling stomachs—neither quite grasping the skill of Far Eastern cutlery. She'd squeezed him tight, tired and smelling of strange spices, kissing him on the cheek before hurrying up the stairs to bed.
In this life, it was decidedly more simple. Well, for Belle at least.
"No, no, you don't hold them like that. Do it like this," the young, sweet—but sharp as any steak knife when she needed to do some cutting—voice reprimands. Always scolding him, she is. It had started before their food had even arrived. The chopsticks at Storybrooke's one Chinese restaurant were the cheap, splintering variety, the kind that come in plastic wrap that you have to tear apart before you can use them. When he'd rubbed the two sticks against one another to get off any lingering wood slivers, but she'd wagged a finger. "That's very rude. Don't do it!"
Now, she takes hold of his hands as if they are her own, which they may well be if he is honest with himself, rearranging the utensils. "The bottom one like a pencil. Keep it steady. You only move the top one. Yes, that's a bit better."
No, it isn't better, Mr. Gold finds, as he drops his dumpling, as he moves over the expanse between plate and mouth. It lands in his lap with squish. "God damnit," he grumbles.
Belle can't help but hide a giggle behind a hand. Her own chopsticks are expertly managed between her fingers, he notes.
Mr. Gold glares at her, "Not funny, dearie. I'll have to get this cleaned now."
She rolls her eyes at him, "You always get your suits dry-cleaned. Who's the one who has to pick them up after school, hm?"
Ah yes, school, for his ward, Belle French, is seventeen and a senior at Storybrooke High School. He's fostered her since her father's death nine years ago. They are an anomaly, the town odd couple.
No one knew quite what to make of it, when after the florist's car accident, the infamous pawnbroker most uncharacteristically took in the waif out of the (up until that point, unknown, assumed nonexistent) kindness of his heart.
Call it penance, he'd justified the day, he'd taken the shaken girl from the nun's makeshift foster home. On the drive to his house, in his uncomfortably silent Cadillac, he'd slipped, calling the place 'foster hell.' Belle (his Belle, now) had laughed, and they'd taken to calling it such ever since.
Paying penance was true enough, for Mr. Gold had given Moe French the loan to finance the purchase of the van that had been his untimely end. The little girl had been lucky, the man's truck had fishtailed on the ice, having gone and picked up his daughter one winter's day from school, and gone down a ravine, flipping, killing the unbuckled father, but leaving the properly buckled child simply banged up.
Those first weeks had been the worst. She would stare off into space, until he had to shake consciousness back into her eyes. She'd been half crazy—still was some days.
But today, she is seventeen, and too damn smart for her own good.
When the little shit who had promised to take her out for a quiet birthday dinner had stood up the little lady, feigning illness, Gold, in a momentary lapse of judgment distracted by the look of disappointment in her eyes, had offered to take her out, in the boy's stead. Anywhere, he'd said.
Anywhere indeed. She knew he hated foreign food. But here they be (and still bloody hungry in this life too).
She picks up her own dumpling—neither by stabbing it, nor with fork or finger. She manages like she was raised on them. He tries so very hard not to watch her eat, but when she raises her eyes, she catches him. She grins, as he looks away.
If Mr. Gold was feeling particularly wicked, he is close enough he could bat a hand at her elbow, knock the slippery thing from her hold, in jest, but that would require touching her—something he largely avoids like the plague. She sits just across the tiny, linoleum table, so close yet forever too far away. Instead of touching her or watching her eat her birthday meal, he stares at cheap prints of famous watercolors and pots of bamboo around the room.
Mr. Gold can hardly believe that little shit had the nerve to stand up this goddess in the making. On his way home from the shop, he'd seen the little fucker, out back behind the Old Woman Lucas' diner, where the high school boys tended to congregate in the evening—best views up Miss Lucas' skirts, rumor had it.
The young knight had been smoking with a group of hooligans, he vaguely recalled as the lower ranks of the merry men (still up to no good this world and the last), clearly not on the deathbed he'd claimed. At the sight, he'd considered killing the boy then and there, but murder seemed so much worse here, so he'd gone home and done the next best thing, which had been to console his little ward. Followed, by making an ill-thought through bargain.
Now, he must eat the bitter fruit of his deal. Gold gives up, setting down the chopsticks. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were trying to starve me are, m'dear."
She laughs, which turns into a tiny, half-hearted cough, but he hears the tell-tale wheeze buried there, not deep, not yet. Which reminds him.
"Dearie, that cough doesn't sound so good." He motions for the server, who comes swiftly, Gold's reputation preceding him. He's about to ask for a fork, but she beats him to it, anticipating his needs, at which she's become quite adept in their nine years together. "I do hope you aren't catching what your boy has."
His Belle does her best not to look guilty. What's more she almost manages it, for she's much better at duplicity in this life—having watched the guiles of an old dragon the larger half of her youth.
He thinks on that a moment—the idea coming out of nowhere. Belle's lived with him for longer than she's lived with her father now, on this, her seventeenth birthday. He wonders if she's thought on this fact, if it would make her feel as satisfied as it makes him feel or if she'd hate him for it. The later probably.
"No, I don't think so. Allergies is all."
Mr. Gold gives her a knowing look. "Good thing. I wouldn't want my windowsills to suffer overmuch with a prolonged illness." He says it, not so much because she has put out the nasty things on the windowsill. His girl is more conscientious than that, but she'd take his meaning all the same.
"Your sills?" Belle asks. Then, for he reads it on her face—could read anything on her face after watching it these past three decades—she realizes just exactly what he's saying, and what he's left unsaid, for that's how it's always worked in their house, their home. They play a constant word game of wit and deciphering, of crushing honesty and painted, little omitances and lies. It's a thrilling game that makes his blood thrum in his veins and makes her pink in the cheeks with anger and delight. "Oh."
"Oh, indeed."
"How could you tell?"
"Because I'm not that old, dearie." Gold had taken note of the sudden increase in room fresheners and the vague smell of cigarette smoke on her fingers the very next day, after she'd first lit up, presumably hanging out the east-facing window in her room, just down the hall—twelve steps to be specific, not that he's counted or anything of that nature. "You know I won't abide smoking in the house," he says, and there's that game of theirs again, for he's left 'I won't abide you smoking' unsaid.
"Yes, but you wouldn't let me try your pipe."
Her words strike a chord, and he growls, all bark and no bite, "Petulant child." The waitress finally brings him an instrument he can actually use. He accepts it wordlessly and motions his hand, dismissing her.
Belle shakes her head, shrugging at the put-off waitress. Once she's gone, she says, "That wasn't very nice. It's not her fault you're shite at chopsticks, you know."
He can't help, but smile at her use of one of his curses. However, that doesn't change the fact that her words have upset him. The very idea that he's driven her to this sits wrong in his empty (damned sticks) stomach and sets his jaw a-grinding.
He wants to keep her pure and perfect, but he knows all too well she isn't. Hasn't been for sometime, not since her father, the oath, drove that fucking truck off the side of the road, the truck Gold had financed. Just another item to add to the list of sins. He's killed her, driven her to orphaned madness, now smoking and cursing too. That's four. What else will he drive her to before the end?
But the word, little and trivial as it is, reminds him all the same that she's seventeen, and that he isn't her father—to pretend at that old line is just damned ridiculous when he stares at her mouth, her hands and her throat (all the vulnerable bits) half the time and imagines them the rest. "That boy get you started on this?" he asks, because he's a coward, and he'd much rather place the blame somewhere else, at least for this little piece of corruption.
Belle shakes her head. "No." Then she smirks, and leans forward—he's pleased she wears a modest t-shirt today. "But I did steal them from his truck."
"What a little thief you are. Taking a poor boy's smokes and lighter."
"Not the lighter. I took that from you."
"Oh, did you now?" He thinks back to his snuffbox, but doesn't recall seeing anything amiss. "However did you manage that?"
"I took the matches from the kitchen. Knew you wouldn't notice."
It's true, since entering middle school, the kitchen had largely become her domain. She could have lifted the sink out from under him, and Gold would have been hard pressed to take note. Devious little ne'r-do-well, his Belle.
"I do hope you don't plan on continuing this life of crime."
"I'm not worried. If I ever do get caught, you can be my lawyer, and everyone knows how it goes when you're on the defense team."
He's taken to letting her play at being his paralegal. If only she'd get out of this dead-end town, she might actually make something of herself—then he'd have to relearn that damn kitchen, sink or no. "Don't think you could afford my fees, dearie."
She pouts at him, with lips too-full, but she'll grow into them. Even in her child's face, he knows that look. That's her stubborn face. "I'm not going to stop." You can't make me stop, she leaves unsaid.
Mr. Gold sighs. "Well, Belle, legally, you're not allowed to smoke. Not until you're eighteen."
"That's not right. There's no such thing as a smoking age. I looked it up in your books."
His Belle would, too. "Fine, you're legally disallowed from the purchasing of cigarettes," he amends, begrudgingly.
She beams at him—his Belle loves proving him wrong. "It's a stupid rule. In Europe it's much lower," she says, trying to look flippant, but her eyes give away her hopefulness.
She's baiting him and his supposed European roots. He won't fall for it. "Aye, but we're the wrong side of the pond for all that."
"You let me have wine," Belle complains.
"With the seltzer."
"It's the same thing." She crosses her arms, pouting at him, though she knows how he hates the pouting.
He really shouldn't give in. It will just encourage her, but Gold's always had a soft spot for this little lady. "Tell you what. I'll make you a deal."
Belle's eyes perk up at his words, waiting for him to continue.
"You hold off on this little rebellion for a year, and I'll let you try the pipe." He refers to the evenings when they sit on the balcony, taking tea. She usually reads while he, on occasion smokes a very fine pipe.
Mr. Gold can tell she's debating—for that's another thing in their house, one always honors one's agreements, no lies or going back on a promise once given (he did say forever, after all). She's waffling, he sees, so he sweetens the pot, "and I'll oblige you the occasional cigarette?"
That brings a smile. "Deal," Belle says.
He smiles too, though he doesn't much like the idea of his girl smoking, but she's seventeen. She's growing up—whether he likes it or not, knows what to do with it, or not. Mr. Gold motions for the check wordlessly, pays and soon enough they're out the door.
"So, what do you want for dinner?" she asks.
"Dearie, we just ate."
"I just ate. You sat there and made a mess of yourself." She motions to his dirty suit. "What can I make you?"
"It's your birthday, dear. I shouldn't make you cook."
"You aren't making me. I'm offering," Belle scolds. All the same, she loops her arm through his, as they walk to the car. "What sounds good?"
"Anything that doesn't require chopsticks will suit, dearie."
